


Marshmallows (New Version)

by RhododendronWilliams



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Addiction, Existential Angst, Guilt, M/M, Marshmallows, POV Cecil (Welcome to Night Vale), Scientist Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Typical Night Vale Weirdness, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhododendronWilliams/pseuds/RhododendronWilliams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sheriff's Secret Police announce a new torture method: soul-crushing guilt. Meanwhile, Cecil is struggling with a severe marhsmallow addiction, which has given him a sentient marshmallow gut.<br/>(I didn't take down the original story, but I wanted to make Carlos more scientist. I originally wrote this before hearing "The First Date", and I hadn't realized how stiff and formal Carlos can be. Added some scarier bits. Also, some more lovey-dovey stuff from Cecil.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marshmallows (New Version)

You stand on a hilltop all alone.

The panoramic view seems to stretch out forever and ever, in all directions. You can see everything. You can hear some things too – distant screams and howling, menacing mouth-smacking, giant teeth gnashing against other giant teeth.

But even in this moment of stillness, you know that it will soon return.

That tingle in your bones that reminds you

That the past is never over.

Welcome. To Night Vale.

 

The Sheriff's Secret Police have announced that all physical torture in Night Vale prisons will cease today. The reason is, and I quote, ”it did not seem fair, given that 53 per cent of the town's population was born without pain-sensing nerves. Instead of physical punishment, all prisoners will now be inflicted with horrific, soul-breaking guilt, until such time as they mend their ways or die.” Sounds pretty fair to me!

An outside expert was brought in to do the guilting. She is a miss Senbad Morales, who will also serve as the town's official conscience. Miss Morales holds a PhD in con-science, and has experience of the toughest criminals in some of the worst prisons in the US, including Alcatraz. She has also driven many people to madness with guilt, first and foremost her own parents.

Miss Morales visited our studio earlier today to give the following statement: ”Greetings, Night Vale. I hope that our cooperation will be fruitful, and that all the rotten apples will be weeded out of the tree that is your town. Please go about your usual daily business and act as if I'm not here. Just remember: I see everything. I know what you have hidden under your mattresses, and what lurks inside your hollowed-out Bibles. For shame, Night Vale. For shame.”

As for her looks, she is a short, slim, tightly-wound young lady with jet black hair and prominent conscience tentacles, which come out of the middle of her skull to punish people when needed. It struck me that her tentacles look very similar to the unidentified tendrils of our own Station Management. The only difference is that Miss Morales' tentacles seem to change colors, from a faint pink glow of kindness to a dark, deep, punishing purple. It also occurred to me that I have been terribly, unnecessarily mean to Steve Carlsberg. He might have a nasal voice that could pierce your ear lobes, or enlarge existing piercings. He might give enragingly vague weather reports, and we all know he is unapologetically cheap with mayonnaise when it's his turn to make sandwiches for the town picnic. But he is, after all, only human. So um, I'm sorry Steve. ..I guess.

I should also remember to clean my house more often, and my marshmallow habit is getting out of control. I am an awful, putrid person. An eternity of guilt would not be enough to fix-

[scary noises]

[in a strained voice] Oh dear. Station Management has informed me, by shouting inside my head and probing my brain in a most unpleasant way, that I am not to say anything about their physical attributes, nor compare them to the corresponding attributes of any other being or beings. I shall stick to reporting the news, announcements, and traffic reports for our small community, and cease and desist with all descriptions of the Station Management, who shall remain nameless, unseen, and inaudible forever and ever, amen. I apologize. Now on to our other topics.

Dear listeners.. marshmallows. Those soft, sticky, gooey, sweet treats. They are a delightful escape for the young, the middle-aged, even for the old and toothless – just ask Old Woman Josie. But this harmless delight has shown me its dark side. It is a pitch black, deep, hollow underbelly that can spiral you into a space devoid of life and joy. It may begin with some ordinary indulgence, say a bout of comfort eating when a perfect person's beautiful hair was shorn. But before you know it, you are lying on the floor with a distented belly and five or six plastic bags next to you – bags that only a moment ago were bursting with delicious flavor and soft huggable texture. That feeling is like touching clear blue heaven. The clouds, listeners, the clouds...

But addiction always takes its toll. I have acquired a rather large fatty deposit directly above my belt and below my chest. Now, I don't see myself as a vain man. I was fine with the first couple of pounds; my perfect loving Carlos was too, stating that "being slightly overweight can be beneficial to your health", and patting my tummy tenderly from time to time. However, after about eight pounds of gain, the thing took on a life of its own. The life of one Dorian Kent, a civil engineer from London, to be exact. Carlos says it's impossible since I never visited England, but even he must admit that Dorian's accent is pretty convincing.  

Listeners, I am baffled by this. Dorian keeps growing larger and louder, and his love of 80's music is plaguing my days and nights. Last night, we were forced to listen to a shrieking, tone-deaf rendition of ”Like a Virgin”, until Carlos agreed to rub him to sleep. After this, Dorian still mumbled something like ”Yes, Your Majesty, I am just about to crack the code...” I do not know what his goal or mission here is, but one thing is for sure – he is wearing us out. This morning, Carlos took a sample of my adipose tissue - Dorian is such a crybaby, he screamed the whole time - and then he took another sample and another, and all confirmed that Dorian's DNA is NOT mine. "I've never seen anything like this," Carlos said, concern illuminating his beautiful eyes. I swear they change colors with his moods! And not just the usual colored part but his eyeballs too. They were positively mauve and speckled, and I could not help but kiss him right then and there. "Cecil, are you listening? You need to have surgery. This is not your own tissue." But I could not stop kissing him, and he got distracted.

Breath. Sinews. Blood gushing back and forth, back and forth. Your breathing going back and forth, frothing at the mouth. Your feet tapping the sidewalk as you run, run, RUN for your LIFE. You, contained by your body in this moment in time, this place in the world. It is the only place you can be at this moment. Too bad you've been spotted, and will soon be captured. Give yourself in before that happens. You know you're guilty of  _something_. This PSA was brought to you by the Sheriff's Secret Police. 

Listeners, do you have dental problems? Have you remembered to visit your dentist? Don't forget, or you will be court-ordered a dentist, and they are not always gentle. I visited Dentist Nussbaum yesterday for my tri-annual check-up, and he found no less than 12 cavities and what appears to be a radio transmitter in one of my teeth. The transmitter, when prodded, began to play Lady Gaga at a loud volume, switching songs each time the tooth was touched. Dentist Nussbaum said he had never seen such a thing, had no idea how to remove it, and that I should stop eating marshmallows immediately. When he took his fingers off the device, it stopped playing music and resumed the quiet, benevolent hum that I've come to associate with the inside of my head. It's very soothing, really. 

The Sheriff's Secret Police reports a success rate of 100 % with the new soul-breaking guilt torture method. That means 100 per cent of all the prisoners inflicted with it have either died, gone insane, or changed their views on things like freedom of speech, freedom of religion, or freedom period. "Miss Morales is a valuable asset to our town," informed an agent of the Secret Police just now telepathically into my ear. "We are currently inundating her as an agent in our Police Force. The ceremony is highly secret and on a need-to-know basis. Any civilians present will be prosecuted." And I've just received word, telepathically again, that the location they chose was Big Rico's Pizza, which unfortunately was full of people at the time. Big Rico was released, but the customers were taken into the dungeons for gulting. Really, people should know better than to intrude on the secret need-to-know-basis ceremonies of the Sheriff's Secret Police.

Dear listeners, I am proud to say that I have given up marshmallows entirely, and have not ingested one in, let's see - 10 hours, 14 minutes, 5 seconds. My devoted Carlos helped me empty each and every stash in the house, although he grew increasingly quiet after the tenth one, and when I revealed the 20th and final stash inside the mattress, his beautiful dark skin grew paler, and his perfect hair stood on end. It was not one of my proudest moments, listeners, but I feel liberated now, like a cow let out to pasture, like a young colt who gallops unhindered with its mane glistening in the sun. And what is a little sweating, heart palpitations, vomiting and hair loss, when the prize is peace and quiet? Dorian is upset about this turn of events, and keeps singing ”God Save the Queen” just to disturb me. But I will stand firm.

Here's a message from our sponsors. ”Are you sick of taking trips that make home seem like a dump? Do your fears, nightmares, and odd pains return as soon as you're back in Night Vale? Try a vacation that makes your home life seem like paradise. Give yourself or your loved ones the gift of a guilt trip. We offer a wide range of guilt trips, from a stroll down memory lane to a detailed look at your current life and choices. The destination might be, say, the office of the Sheriff's Secret Police where you confess your thought crimes. Or you might end up in a prison cell fully equipped with HBO on Demand and relatively clean sheets. The destination and intensity of the trip varies from person to person. No refunds in case of insanity. Come to us at Night Vale's Nifty Travel Agency, and ask for Senbad. Night Vale's Nifty Travels – you _can_ get away.”

Local marshmallow manufacturer Sticky&Gooey Ltd has issued the following statement: ”Marshmallow addiction is not a real thing. What could we possibly gain from adding cocaine, Valium, or other addictive substances to our innocent candy? Our corporation has absolutely nothing to do with the desert drug cartel, or Her Majesty the Queen of England. We are an honest, all-American company, working hard to bring you only the best. A marshmallow is a treat to be consumed with responsibility and will power. If you cannot stop yourself, look in the mirror, tubby.” Thank you, Sticky&Gooey. It is so soothing to know that our town's corporations truly care about us lowly consumers. I'm also flattered to hear they listen to my show!

And now, traffic.

Old Woman Josie called me earlier to inform the town that her angels in residence are learning how to ride bikes. She warns us that all cars should slow down near her house, because the angels are still very wobbly on the bikes and may fall down. She has also put up signs saying ”Angels Biking Caution Advised” by the highway near her house. The city council has stated that there is absolutely no reason to slow down, because there is no such thing as angels. In fact, they say, you should probably drive a bit faster than usual, just to show Old Woman Josie that there is no danger here. And there are definitely no angels here, either.

And now, my sweet, cuddly, gooey listeners - the weather.

[Come to Sin by Bananafishbones](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32uwK6Dkrok)

This just in, my genius Carlos reports that he has investigated some marshmallows and found definite traces of cocaine, Valium, metamphetamine, rat intestine, as well as the unnamed substance that was found in the house that doesn't exist. He also said that the amount of sugar in the marshmallows is five times higher than what is mentioned on the package. However, before he called me, Sticky&Gooey Ltd. had already issued this statement: ”We cannot reveal our secret marshmallow recipe, because everyone would try to emulate it. The secret ingredients are on a need-to-know basis. But we reiterate that there are no addictive substances in any of our products, including but not limited to Marshmall-O's, Marshall-O's, and Synthetically Enhanced Super Marshies. Certain scientists had better stop sticking their pretty nose where it does not belong. There may be repercussions. Marshmallows never sleep.” Carlos warned me against eating any marshmallows or marshmallow by-products again, but I must say I am conflicted. Sticky&Gooey Ltd. clearly cares about us consumers, and have been very active in denying the allegations. I fear Carlos is sometimes a touch paranoid; he sees government plans and sinister motives behind everything. That is the only flaw, in fact, in this otherwise perfect man. He just needs to relax, that's all.

Our town's most fertile citizen, Gertie McPerkinson, has given birth to her 30th child today, a little girl this time. The infant, named ZXY Cyborg-30 McPerkinson, joins 15 older sisters and 14 brothers, all born within the last 20 years. Doctor Williams gave a press conference in front of the hospital, where he mentioned that the baby is perfectly healthy and normal, except for the large glowing green whiskers, but this was expected, given that all of Ms. McPerkinson's children have had them. ”We would have been surprised if she had not sported such whiskers,” explained Dr. Williams. Some journalists raised the question of how Ms. McPerkinson can continue to produce children, given that she had a hysterectomy five years ago, after the birth of her 25th child, ZYX Cyborg-25. Dr. Williams said, ”You press vultures. You sad, pathetic human waste, feeding on other people's misery and confusion. Don't you have anything better to do? Just go home already! Shoo!” End quote. Miss McPerkinson has been quoted as saying, ”Oh my god, make it stop, make it stop”. A source who wishes to remain anonymous claimed she whispered ”It's the sheriff...” before passing out. We congratulate Miss McPerkinson and wish her many more bundles of joy.

Dear listeners, I apologize for my earlier silliness. One does not simply leave marshmallows. In fact, why do so? Cavities can be filled, bigger clothes can be acquired, and one can get used to a constant low-level humming, or even terrible karaoke versions of 80's hits. After all, they help cover up the inhuman night-time shrieks and howls. In other words, I am once again consuming marshmallows at an envigoratingly rapid pace, and they have filled me with inner peace and benevolence for all things alive. Even Dorian, that loveable rascal. He is really rather like our adopted British son, although Carlos seems to have trouble finding his paternal instincts. He'll come around yet.

I became enlightened last night as I was accosted by three human-sized, white and pink marshmallows on my way home. They looked aggravated at first, accusing me of ”leaving them high and dry”. They explained that a marshmallow not eaten will become severely depressed, and lose their soft gooey substance. A crusty marshmallow is no good. They then followed me home, where their aggressive hand-twitching and murmuring ceased. We enjoyed soft drinks and played Monopoly for hours. I was the shoe. I cannot remember exactly what happened after this, but at some point I woke up with the giant marshmallows gone, little ones in my mouth, and Dorian humming loudly, so distended that a button had fallen off my pants. Carlos was looking on, concerned. ”Did you have a relapse?” he said kindly. I cannot recall my response, but Carlos claims it was, ”They pulled me back in” followed by ”There'll always be an England, and England shall be free.” The latter comment may have come from Dorian. But really, he is a part of me, and I'm a part of him. Carlos looked concerned again when I pointed this out, and the mauve and speckled eyes are just  _irresistible!_

Ladies and gentlemen, the Sheriff's Secret Police have announced that guilt was never used as a torture method in the Night Vale prison system, Miss Morales was never here, and if there were a town conscience, she would certainly not find any flaws in the actions of the sheriff's secret police or the city council. So if you have any recollection of Miss Morales, do not hesitate to turn yourself in at the Night Vale Joyful Recreation and Re-education Center, formerly known as the Night Vale Mental Hospital.

Night is falling once again. How many nights have there been in the course of history, and how many still shall be, before we are hurled into an endless void without sun or time? We cannot know, we can only live in the moment. In this moment, the llamas are breathing steadily, the birds have gone quiet, and red-eyed horses puff smoke out of their nostrils as they patrol the streets.

 

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.


End file.
